


The Dreamers

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Almost Drowning, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Secret Santa, too many literary references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: She kept a tight hold on her bag as she made her way to the end of the street and tried to figure out what her best course of action was. She could flag down a taxi, perhaps. But she didn't have any money, and she was quite sure that her mother wouldn't have money when she arrived and would chastise her for spending money frivolously. (my contribution to Blake Secret Santa '18 for Funkybetsy)





	The Dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> What a year, huh? Anyway, to you funkybetsy, I hope this satisfies your prompt 'hurt comfort'! Hopefully this was worth the wait :-) to everyone else, happy holidays and enjoy the fic! Credit where Credit is due, the first section of this fic is based on 'The Dreamer' by Barbara Baynton, which is one of my favourite stories ever.

In the old days, there would have been someone waiting for her.  
  
The Randalls hadn't always been poor. In fact, when Jean had been a little girl they'd had so much money that they could afford a cart to take into town. Her father would spoil her with books that had pictures (and some without) and tell her stories of the far off places he'd visited as a young man. There had always been food to eat and there had never been the threat of reclamation from the bank.  
  
Of course, that was the old days, and there were not the old days. There were the nowadays when there was no one to wait for her as she stepped off the train platform and onto the dirt outside the station. Overhead, lightning set fire to a distant patch of ground and she could have sworn she could smell it in the air.  
  
She kept a tight hold on her bag as she made her way to the end of the street and tried to figure out what her best course of action was. She could flag down a taxi, perhaps. But she didn't have any money, and she was quite sure that her mother wouldn't have money when she arrived and would chastise her for spending money frivolously.  
  
The house wasn't so far away. It was the house that she'd always known her mother to live in, though these days it needed a thick coat of paint. The lounge that she'd known as a girl no longer had any legs attached to it and all of the windows in the kitchen had been smashed with no future plans to fix them. Despite it, the farmhouse was home enough for the Randalls and it would be home enough for her too; assuming that she could get there.  
  
She'd been living in Melbourne for less than three years but it felt like a century between leaving and coming back. She did not regret marrying Christopher, but she did regret having to follow him so far from her family to Melbourne where he had work. But she was a grown woman now, with a child and sometimes you have to put things like money first even if you don't want too.  
  
Rain pelted her as she made her way to the end of the street, soaking into her dress and flattening her hair. Ideally, she'd have it set but there was no money for that. It made everything heavy. She felt heavy before, but this was with child; more than anything she was wearing. Not long now until being a daughter was foreign to her; muted over the instinct of being a mother.  
  
But she was here again. To see her mother before she gave birth, to be held, and to be a daughter for the final time. Christoper would have come if he was able, but someone had to stay and look after Christoper Junior and it could not be her. Not if she wanted to make this trip back to where she came from.  
  
She continued down the road at a slow but steady pace. Her bag felt as though it was full of led weights. She wondered if the hollow tree from her childhood was still along this road. As a young girl, she used to hide things in it that she didn't want her mother to find, like gum from the local boys and sheet music she would buy with the occasional few pence there was to spare. When they had money, of course. There was no sheet music to be found anywhere after her father died.  
  
Thing was, it'd been so long since she walked this road that she had no idea were the hollowed out tree was. In the rain, it was even more difficult to get her barrings. Beneath her feet, the red dirt road was becoming a slurry and seeping into her stocking through the hole in the bottom of her shoe.  
  
These stockings were going to be a write off when she made it back to the homestead. She didn't think even her mother and all her laundry tricks could help her to get the mud out. It was a shame; she liked these stockings. They were the good kind that didn't run too easily. She'd scrimped and saved for ages to buy good ones that would last.  
  
Even so, she trudged onwards. Perhaps if she saw someone along the road she could ask them to take her with them a bit closer to the homestead. But she didn't think she would see anyone along here. She barely saw people along here in the daytime. She supposed it was better to make this trip in the rain than to try and make it through the oppressive heat of the day and risk heatsickess. She found the rain tolerable but the heat was beyond her capacity.  
  
She continued walking.  
  
The streetlights had stopped appearing some time ago and the road was illuminated by nothing but the moon that hung just out of reach. It shone down on her, and the road. She'd picked a good night for it, then, hadn't she? The moon was almost full but she wasn't sure if it was waxing or waning. If it was smaller then she wouldn't have been able to see and then what would she do? She'd probably have to stop somewhere and hide for the night.  
  
She really wasn't sure how dangerous it was out here. As a little girl her father had warned her about Bush Rangers and if she wasn't careful then she might end up stuffed in a swag roll. She had no idea how much of that was true and how much was him just trying to scare her out of trouble but she did know that her mother didn't like to hear about 'that business' so perhaps there was something to it after all.  
  
She missed her father. He was a good man if there ever was one. He used to preach to them on Sundays if they couldn't make it to the Church. He loved the story of Job and would always have such a compelling way of relating it to them. Animated and light. Sometimes she wondered how a man like Jack Randall could find love with a woman like Josephine who cared far more about fire and brimstone than actually teaching the lessons found in the bible.  
  
She realized then what she was going to have to do. There was no way for her to make it to the homestead dragging this suitcase with her. It just wasn’t at all possible. Using the light of the moon to guide her she managed to find the hollowed out tree stump by the side of the road. It was burnt out by a bushfire that happened before anyone she knew happened to settle out here.  
  
When she was a little girl, it was mostly used by the children of the local farmers to hide the things they didn’t want their parents to see, like gum and cigarettes. Seemed like nothing had changed in the time that she’d been away, there was a packet of camels wedged into the trees many hollows and spaces as well as several love notes that were all but ruined by the rain except for the lovehearts that decorated the borders. She wasn’t worried about her suitcase, it was a good one. A wedding gift. Made from thick leather. Of course, that was only protection against the elements not against being stolen but in this weather it wasn’t as though she had much of a choice.  
  
In the nearby scrub, she heard the rustling of little feet. Perhaps a fox out looking for a meal? She wasn’t frightened of it. Or; she didn’t think she was. She’d watched many a fox be carried up into the homestead by her brothers to be skinned. When she was younger she had a scarf made from the stuff. She wore it until it got muddy saving one of the horses who got loose and not even her mother had been able to save it.  
  
As she stood up to move away from the hollow she realized her mistake. The tree was much closer to the lip of the creek than she remembered perhaps eroded by the rain and time she’d been away. Her foot lost it’s grip almost right away sending her onto her behind and slipping right into the rushing, gushing, icy cold river.  
  
Weighed down by her dress she struggled to pull her head to the surface to breath. The air that she got was wet and she began to cough up almost as much as she was breathing in. This was God, punishing her. She knew it. The rain, the hole in her shoe, her suitcase, even the fox were all signs she should have just stayed back in town and found somewhere to stay for tonight.  
  
Something crashed into her from the side, sending her back underwater and scrambling for the surface. Her son was going to grow up without a mother, she thought, distantly. Like she was somewhere else watching this happen to her poor body. And Christopher. Would they even find her body? Or would they just think she ran away? That would be the ultimate insult, wouldn’t it?  
  
She managed to get another breath of air into her lungs. She scrabbled for purchase on the floor of the creek but only succeeded in ripping off one of her fingernails. Or maybe just the top of one. It felt like the whole thing but what would she know about that anyway? What did she know at all? She was stupid enough to get herself into this situation, wasn’t she?  
  
Then her mind drifted to the baby inside her now. This baby wasn’t going to grow up at all if she didn’t find a way out of this. When Christopher had been born she’d worried she might not have the same motherly instincts that everyone else seemed to have but now she knew. She had to make it out of this alive.  
  
So, Jean Randall did the only thing that she could think to do. She begged. She begged God to spare her, even if just so her child could live. The baby was innocent no matter what He thought of her. She shut her eyes against the rushing burning water and begged.  
  
If it was God or dumb luck, she’d never know. But along the side of the creek, a large tree branch caught hold of her skirt as she tumbled by. She was saved. Or, not going to drown here at least. With the last of her strength, she pulled herself up onto the shore and then…  
  
She collapsed.  
  
…  
  
“Jean?”  
  
“Yes, Lucien?”  
  
“Are you alright?”  
Outside it was raining. Not just spitting, but truly raining. It pelted the windows like it was trying to get in. The wind whipped down the sides of the house stripping her plants of their leaves and spinning the washing line. Lucien sat in his chair, away from her. She’d meant for him to sit with her but changed her mind at the last second. Not because she was scared of being found out, no, not anymore. Not that there was cause to; they were the only ones home.  
  
Charlie was where he seemed to be most of the time these days, sitting with Lawson and watching television. He’d called a while back to report that he’d had a bit too much to drink and wasn’t game to drive home in the rain. He was a good kid.  
  
She wanted to sit next to him but she didn’t want him to feel how hard her heart thumped against her ribs whenever she heard a crack of thunder. Perhaps that was childish of her. In fact, she knew that it was childish of her. Lucien had bad dreams frequently. She never discouraged him from seeking comfort. If she was smarter she’d do the same thing.  
  
Or perhaps it was Lucien’s terrible dreams that stopped her from seeking out comfort with him. What was what she’d gone through compared to that? She’d seen his drawings. What were one wet night and one misplaced foot compared to that? He’d probably think she was being ridiculous. That was how she rationalized keeping secrets from him anyway.  
  
“Jean?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“What question?”  
  
“I asked if you were alright.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
He gave her a look that she’d many times seen directed at people who he believed were concealing something from him. She didn’t much care for having it directed at her. His face was drenched in concern, a crease appeared between his eyebrows. It feels like she's burning up with the need to tell him. She’d never told anyone before. Not even her mother.  
  
“I’m going to make a cup of tea. Do you want one?”  
  
“It’s a bit late for tea.” He said.  
  
“I’m a rebel.” She lied.  
  
She made her way to the kitchen. The rain thudded against the pane of glass. It must be some kind of tropical low out there, she thought as she put the kettle on the stove. She realized it was empty. Rain did her head in, didn’t it? Usually, she was on top of this sort of thing.  
  
She moved to the sink and positioned the kettle under the spout. She turned the tap. The water gurgles as it made its way into the kettle. It was comforting to do something normal. It’s how she dealt with most things. Finding normalcy. It worked, and who was she to mess with something that worked.  
  
Right at her eye level, the rain broke through the window. She couldn’t help herself from screaming loudly when it did, out of shock. She tripped backward onto a table and then onto the floor. Lucien’s footsteps thump thump thumped in; he was running she could tell. Running to her. Safety. A buoy in the creek.  
  
She watched, dazed, as he wrestled the window closed.  
  
When he turned to face her, droplets of water clung to his beard and eyelashes. He didn’t seem to notice. The water was still running but he didn’t seem to notice that, either. She would like to tell him to turn it off but can’t cough up the words. She tried anyway but doesn’t know if he can hear her over the pounding of her heart. She’s not sure she can hear anything over the pounding of her heart.  
  
He turned the sink off, so maybe she had said something after all.  
  
It then occurred to her that she was still lying where she had fallen on the floor, propped up by her elbows. Lucien it looking at her, something in his eyes she can only describe as primal shines brightly. Primal desire to care for the wounded member of his pack. She’d seen him look that way at Charlie before, Danny too. Even Matthew. Usually, she can take care of herself but it seemed that the jig was up.  
  
“Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”  He asked, casually. He is a good liar but she knows how to read his eyes better than anyone.  
  
  
“No.” She said, “I don’t think so.”  
  
“Do you need some help getting up?”  
  
“Yes please.”  
  
Lucien held his hand out, and she took it. Much like the branch of that tree which caught on the back of her dress, there he was. She’d never been much of a writer but she didn’t need to be to know that he was her tree in this current creek she was caught in. His arms were branches, keeping her just above water. She was grateful. He led her back to the living room and she sat on the couch. He vanished from her sight and she had to fight the urge to follow him. She wasn’t a child; she didn’t need him like that.  
  
Maybe need and want were unrelated.  
  
He came back, like he always did, carrying towels in his arms. He draped one around her with the same care he tended to all his patients with. Doctors must be just like that, she thought. He put the other around his own shoulders and then sat next to her. Maybe she was just cold from her wet clothes but suddenly being close to his warmth was the only thing she wanted.  
Perhaps he could read minds or it was simply his instinct because he reached out with his arm to wrap it around her. She lay her head down on his shoulder and listened to herself counting each breath in and out.  
  
“Can we talk?”  
  
For a man of much force, he is helpless in close situations sometimes.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“You. You haven’t been alright tonight.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“You seem...like you’re somewhere else. Did something happen?”  
  
She could lie to him like she’s been lying to everyone for the last twenty years. Make something up about being tired or having a bad day. He’s a gentleman. He won’t push her if he doesn’t have too. She’s not a suspect. She’s going to be his wife.  
  
Perhaps that is why she does tell him. She’s going to be his wife and if she expects him to be honest with her then she’ll have to be honest with him. That’s how this works. No more keeping it between her and God. Not tonight at least.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Who? When?”  
  
“Twenty years ago.”  
  
“Twenty years ago?”  
  
She fought the desire to make a sarcastic remark to him. She didn’t really want to, she just felt….upset. Stressed.  
  
“When I was pregnant with Jack, I came back to Ballarat to see my mother.”  
  
A crease formed between his eyebrows but he said nothing in response to her, just put a warm, calloused hand on top of hers.  
  
“It was raining. I heard a while later it was one of the worst storms in Ballarat history.” She pushed on, “And uh, the only way I was able to get home was having to walk.”  
  
“In the rain?”  
  
She can’t tell if he’s judging her or not. Her head feels like a screw that’s been screwed on at an angle. He is probably wondering if she has become a hysterical woman.  
  
“It should have been an hour and a half or two-hour walk.”  
  
He didn’t speak. He barely even took a breath.  
  
“I realized that I had to stop, and put my suitcase down, and when I stood back up...I slipped.”  
  
“Did you hurt yourself?”  
  
His voice is laced with concern. Like a cake laced with rat poison.  
  
“I fell into the creek. I was swept for...I don’t know how long. I almost drowned several times. The back of my dress caught on a tree and I was able to climb.”  
  
The way she relays it to him sounds...False. Simple. At the time, she’d been convinced she was going to die but now? She seemed like a child. This wasn’t a bad injury, and if it was then it wasn’t as bad as everyone else's. She isn’t sure what she wants from him. One one hand, she was to be held, and she wants him to tell her that it’s okay and she’s okay. On the other, maybe it would be kinder for him to tell her she’s overreacting.  
  
He doesn’t do either of those things.  
  
“I can’t imagine that.” He says, “Swept into stormwater in the night. You must have been so frightened.”  
  
“I begged God to spare me so that I could have my baby.” She confessed, suddenly. Like she would burst like an overfilled hot water bottle if she remained silent a minute longer. “He did.”  
  
Long pause. He’s waiting for her to find the words.  
  
“But I don’t think I was begging for my son. I think I was begging for myself.”  
  
“You can’t hide anything from God.” He advised as if he knows something about it. “If he saved you, then it’s because he wanted you to live.”    
  
“Whenever it rains, I feel like I’m living on time that’s not mine.” She said, “I was spared so I could raise Jack and now what? Now he’s given up on me?”  
  
“You did what you promised you would do. You raised in. Forgive me if I’m speaking out of line, Jeanie, but I like to think I know you well. I know you raised your sons with love and kindness.”  
  
It was nice of him to say that, and at the time, she thought that she had but now? How much love could she have given him for him to turn his back on her like that? She tried not to show it but it hurt her gravely. Wounds on the heart are the worst kind but this felt worse than any others. Sometimes, late at night and alone, she believed that she might give up almost anything to have a chance to start over with them.  
  
“You love them. That’s all you can do. Will you be alright if I hold you?”  
  
Except for him.  
  
She nodded and leaned into his arms. She wanted to stay there forever; failing that at least tonight. After all that has happened, after almost losing him...This strikes her down. At least he was kind about it.  
  
“It’s alright to be frightened.” He assured her, “All sorts of things can bring up memories of traumatic events.”  
  
The ‘I would know’ is bitten off the end.  
  
“It feels stupid to be so affected by it now.”  
  
“It’s not. I’ve always thought the most difficult part of an injury is afterward. Same with mental injuries. I can’t….Go back and time. And fix this. Even if I’d like to. But I can be here now.”  
  
“That’s enough.” Jean breathed. “It’s enough.” 


End file.
